


The Last Time

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Birthday, Brothers, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, little brother sherlock, sherlock birthday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And that was how it came to be that on the morning of his 10th Birthday, just before sunrise, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in an empty card board box in the dusty attic of his parent's massive country house, quietly singing Happy Birthday to himself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Time

Sherlock Holmes had realized at a very young age that his birthdays were somewhat inconsequential to those around him. His mother and father were very busy people, and, since he could remember, his brother was always away at school. It wasn't that they forgot his birthday each year, but more so that they saw no reason to make any more fuss than a terse, "Happy Birthday," and perhaps a special dinner that ended in some form of a dessert with a candle in it. At the end of the dinner last year, when the cake was presented, yet again without song, Sherlock stood on his chair and proclaimed he was too old for this inane ritual and demanded they no longer celebrate his birthday.

He was 8.

His parents, despite being rather bright people, simply took him at his word and decided to honor his wishes. So when the next birthday, Sherlock spent all day waiting for someone to at least mention they were pleased about his continuing existence, and secretly hoping threy were planning an extravagant surpirse dinner for him with all his school mates. He climbed into bed that night regretting his foolish tantrum the year prior and fell asleep to his own muffled sobs thinking that an inadequate birthday was surely better than no birthday at all. 

And that was how it came to be that on the morning of his 10th Birthday, just before sunrise, Sherlock Holmes was sitting in an empty card board box in the dusty attic of his parent's massive country house, quietly singing Happy Birthday to himself. While he was trying to keep his voice from wavering as he finished off the chorus (because he was much too old to be crying, dammit) he heard something knock against the outside of the box and then fall the floor. He waited to hear footsteps, either retreating or approaching, or perhaps the squeaking of a mouse who mistook his box for the expanse of wall in which his knot hole was carved.

But as he waited, straining with his excellent hearing (the auditory testers at school said no one had ever scored so high) all he could make out was the cook banging around loudly in the kitchen two floors below, her clumsy pot handling carrying up the stairs. It sounded like the soup pot which meant oatmeal for breaktfast again. Sherlock hated oatmeal. Perhaps if he snuck into the kitchen when she wasn't looking he could dump some extra sugar into it again.

He was formulating a plan to also chuck in some butter when there was another tap at the outside of the box — the side facing the attic door. Waiting and again hearing nothing more, Sherlock's curiosity won out and he stood, pushig open the flaps above his head. The room was empty — well, aside from the masses of carefully organized and labeled storage boxes all around. Sherlock's box was sat directly beneath the window, to which he'd made an open path from the door by shoving aside Kitchen Misc. and Bedroom Misc. and, rather oddly, a box labeled "Hazerdous" that had nothing but empty petri dishes in.

The first light from the dawn was starting to filter through the mucked up window, catching the tiny particles that swirled around the air like a snow fall of allergens. As Sherlock cast his eyes about the rather crowded room, he at first saw nothing of interest. Heaving a great big sigh — a sigh much too big for a ten year old — he clambered out of the box to get a better look. There on the ground by the side of the box that faced the door, were two tiny, miniscule balled up pieces of paper, small enough that they were almost lost in the thin layer of dust.

Sherlock picked up the first one he saw and managed to uncrumple. There, typed from an old typewriter, were only two words: "Back garden." He stood, completely preplexed, staring at the tiny one inch square paper, and wonering what he should do. "Well," he said aloud to himself, "I suppose I could go to the back garden." It seemed rather silly, following instructions from a paper delivered by an unknown source. He resolved, for a moment, to chuck the paper, climb back in the box and sulk the rest of the day away when he remembered the second paper. He bent to retrieve it and unraveled it, unable to stop himself. 

"You'd better hurry or you'll miss it."

Sherlock could not resist it and he took off running. 


End file.
